Puzzle for Fiends by Patrick Quentin Page A

the implications of a sour servant’s scandalous gossip, a doddering old woman’s fancies, and my own amnesiac’s whimsies. Surely no conspirators, however daring, could make their victim so frank an offer as this.
    I found the Physician column in the Classified section. Dr. Frank Graber, I saw. Dr. Joseph Green, Dr. Decius Griddlecook.
    Griddlecook. The name fascinated me. For a moment I toyed with the idea of calling Dr. Griddlecook. Then, it began to dawn on me how ingenious this latest ruse of the Friends’ was.
    If I did call Dr. Griddlecook, I would have to telephone as an invalid who was not satisfied with the services of his own personal physician. That, from the start, would make me an eccentric in Dr. Griddlecook’s eyes. Then he would have to come to the house. He would be greeted by Dr. Croft, Mrs. Friend, Selena, and Marny. Sweetly, attractively, they would represent themselves as an anxious family eager to settle the morbid doubts of a beloved son. Long before Dr. Griddlecook reached my bedside, he would be prejudiced. And once I talked to him, what could I say? That an old woman, whose existence was denied, had told me I was not Gordy Friend and had dropped a handkerchief which was subsequently taken from me. And that I had a wild idea Mr. Friend had been murdered and I was being groomed to take the rap.
    Dr. Croft and Mrs. Friend were still watching me intently waiting for my answer.
    “Well, dear?” asked Mrs. Friend. “Don’t you think Nate’s got a terribly good idea?”
    Dr. Griddlecook, as a potential savior, faded in my mind. All I’d achieve by calling him would be to put the Friends more on their guard, and I had no chance of outwitting them until they were convinced that I was one hundred per cent duped. Here was my opportunity to bluff.
    I let the telephone book drop. I gave them what I hoped was my blandest smile.
    “You’re taking this too seriously,” I said. “I don’t want another doctor’s opinion. Yesterday I did have some crazy feeling about not being Gordy. But it’s gone today.”
    “Darling boy,” beamed Mrs. Friend.
    Dr. Croft was still watching me. “You really mean that?”
    “Sure.”
    “Honest? This is important, you know—important for your recovery.”
    “Cross my heart and hope to die.” I grinned up at Nate.
    “After all, you took care of my father and you’re taking care of me. I’d be a dope not to trust the old family physician.”
    I had said that partly to discover just what Nate Croft had had to do with Mr. Friend’s last illness. I got a rise out of Mrs. Friend.
    Gazing gravely at the pink roses, she murmured: “Nate wasn’t your father’s doctor, dear. Old Dr. Leland was. A most reputable old duck. But just a little stuffy.” She turned her illuminated smile on me. “You could have him to see you, if you like. But I’m sure you’ll find that Nate’s a lot more fun.”
    “Uhuh,” I shook my head. “I’m sticking to Nate.”
    So Mr. Friend’s death-bed had been attended by old reputable Dr. Leland. Presumably, too, old reputable Dr. Leland had signed the death certificate. And the fact that the Friends were ready to have me see Dr. Leland proved they weren’t bluffing. I felt a lot easier in my mind. They might have Nate Croft sewed up. But surely they couldn’t have made a conspirator out of old reputable Dr. Leland too.
    I glanced at Nate to see how the question had affected him. It didn’t seem to have affected him at all.
    “So you’re ready to tag along with me, eh, Gordy? Swell and dandy.” His voice was hearty as a country-club locker-room. “That’s our last obstacle gone. Now we’ll go ahead like a house afire.”
    “Lovely.” Mrs. Friend held the paper sack out to Dr. Croft. “Have some candy to celebrate.”
    “Thank you.”
    Dr. Croft took a piece and nibbled at it daintily.
    “Okay, Gordy. Now listen, old man. I’ve brought the wheel chair. This afternoon I want to try you out